Drowning With a White Lady
by ToniPrufrock
Summary: BBC Sherlock  After the events of 'the sign of the four' John prepares to move out to marry Mary, and a lost Sherlock turns back to his drugs


**Drowning with the White Lady**

It wasn't often that Sherlock was prone to odd flights of fancy. but right now his mind was over-active and far less under his control. It was if the whole world had been bumped up in hue and saturation, turning up the contrast to the max, and -in such a world, the letter was defiantly looking at him.  
Hatefully.  
He shifted and closed his eyes, trying to calm down his hammering heartbeat as it felt like it was trying to punch his way out of his chest. His eyeballs itched behind and he had an odd taste in his mouth. coppery. Instantly images leaped up and burst like little fireworks in his mind's eye, all occupying a single second. millisecond even.

Copper pipes and plumbing, copper kettles and Victorian paraphernalia, copper buckles copper jewellery rusted copper, bronze, rain, metal, warmth, wombs, dentistry and- yes, yes that was it- blood. All types. any type. But no, he knew this type. his type. his copper taste. his warm womblike coppery tasting blood that kind of tasted like rain on slate roofs before a thunderstorm.  
God his mind was on fire.  
faster than ever before.  
More creative. Drifting away form science into the sensory arts and the emotional planes - places that were normally out of reach for him. The Sociopath that he was.  
he felt like his mind was tearing itself to pieces trying to define that thunderstorm-rain-copper-slate-rooftile-blood.  
What was it?

he swallowed and realised that it was his own blood. He put a pale and slightly shaking hand up to his face and felt the nosebleed that dribbled into his lip.  
Should have used the syringe. he thought. But he had none. He needed to steal some from Bartholomew's soon, he reminded himself.  
He probably looked awful. All blood down his face and a fine halo of white powder left over on his bedsheets.  
he didn't care.

Though that letter. That damned letter was probably mocking him.  
"ugh, don't be so ridiculous Holmes."  
he said aloud. His voice deep but a little disjointed as he tried to anchor himself back into logic.  
The Letter was from John. It was a defunct gesture, he had reminded the doctor, since he lived with him. John had replied that he knew that, but he was sending everyone one and it'd be rude not to give one to Sherlock, especially since he was the person he most cared about being there.

Dear Sherlock,  
You are invited to the wedding of Watson and Miss. Mary Morston on the 16th February.  
You are invited to act as the Best Man for Watson.  
The happy couple await your reply as soon as possible.  
RSVP  
John & Mary

he squeezed his eyes shut away from it, feeling the dark miserable void in his chest open up again. he didn't understand it. he'd never felt any emotion like it, and barely understood the emotions that he did feel in his life.  
He needed more cocaine. he needed to stop his mind from tearing him apart.  
Well, his mind was occupied. Too fast, actually. he probably chose the wrong drug. Should have gone for heroin. Should have tried to kill his brain into a lethargy.  
But damn it cocaine was supposed to make him feel happy. It always had before. Always.  
he knew the science: releases endorphins and dopamine and all sorts of other handy buzzes. No one was happier than a cocaine addict when he was high.  
So why did he want to scream uselessly that it wasn't fair?  
Emotions. Coke heightened his emotions. emotions he rarely ever felt. Now they had found the one emotion he did feel and amplified it tenfold.  
A void and one emotion.  
Something like grief, he supposed.

Didn't have any heroin left over. More coke might help.  
More might make it stop.

Alone in the darkness of his tiny room, watched over neutrally by his skull and cocooned agaisnt the world by the mountains of books that surrounded his bed, he reached out for more.  
Watson didn't know. he didn't notice.  
Something in Sherlock dimly wondered what it would take for him to notice him any more.  
God he was a mess.  
But thinking was for later. right now he needed more of his drugs to distract him. Give him something to hold on to.  
And an addiction was the perfect lifeline. It stopped him from drowning by giving him a chokehold around his throat. But it was something to hold on to nevertheless.  
Sherlock jumped as there was a knock on his door.  
His hand hovered over the bag of white powder, hesitating. He then withdrew it.  
"Yes?"

"Are you in there, Sherlock?"  
It was John Watson's voice of course. Only he could ask such a bleedingly obvious question.  
he hesitated, dizzyingly caught between options, but eventually stood up, tying and hiding away his guilt and then grabbing a tissue to wipe up his nosebleed. he opened the door and looked at Watson blankly, even if the void shifted about and his heart seemed to settle more happily at seeing him again.  
He hated to admit it and didn't quite understand it, but Watson felt like home. baker Street wasn't right without him. he WAS 221b Baker Street. Sherlock's one and only friend. The person who kept him grounded.  
"What?"  
Sherlock asked blankly and neutrally, making an attempt to sculpt his natural personality onto the jittery excited mess that bubbled underneath.

John looked Sherlock in the eyes and frowned at his unnatural pupils. He looked wary and genuinely worried.  
"Sherlock...what have you taken?"

"Taken?"  
Sherlock snorted as if the idea was dull and irrelevant. Nevertheless part of him leapt at the idea that John noticed. he noticed and he disapproved. it meant he cared.  
Sherlock gave a sudden bark of a disjointed laugh that actually made Watson flinch. He wondered where t had come from.

"Sherlock..."  
Watson knitted his eyebrows together and tentatively put his hands on his face, studying him. Sherlock looked back into his face, the new creativity of his mind finding eveyrthing about him - seeing everything in new colours and light.  
Soft planes of skin, hard edges, the wrinkles deepened by his tan, gradually fading from leaving the desert sun. the pores all dotted out like the endless planes of some sandstone rock, malleable, pliable and yet strong and constant, and old and wise and so very very true and earthy. Sandy brown hair like the desert and the framing curtain of memories and cleverness stored within his head. Those wonderful puppy dog eyes that belied his real worth. Made people underestimate him. Just like those silly jumpers that felt a little like the blossom of thistles and the wiry wooly smell mixed with his own musk that told a thousand stories and yet were united to make just one Watson. His friend.  
He felt dizzy, a wave of neausa hitting his as his brain overdid itself a little with the information - all of that again crammed in within a millisecond, leaving his usually scientific and bland mindset spinning and titillated and confused.  
he should have started on a smaller hit of the stuff. Not good after so long to go back to the hardest stuff. not good at all.  
he groped out for Watson and the Doctor looked alarmed, gripping his arms.  
"Sherlock." John said seriously. "Sherlock tell me what's wrong."

Sherlock leant forwards, burying his face into his shoulder, breathing in his calming scent. he closed his eyes, silent and shivering.  
he didn't know what was wrong. It just was. how could he explain?  
"Don't go."  
he said finally, his voice low, possessive and broken.

"What? Sherlock I'm here.I just went to the shops."  
he said, looking awkward, but concern and sympathy dulling the emotion until all Watson cared about was getting Sherlock calm. It unnerved him. he'd never seen him like this before. Ever. And Sherlock never asked him for something like this either. It just wasn't HIM...was it?

"Don't. Stay." Sherlock said, voice muffled by John's jumper. He thought about the letter in the bedroom. Looking at him. Still looking at him.  
Shit. He needed to come down off this trip. he didn't like it.  
He remembered when this had used to be fun.  
Well, until he'd tried to jump of that building and decided to stop.  
This seemed even worse than that. This made him WEAK. He could never stand to be weak.

Watson nodded patiently, perhaps not fully understanding, or perhaps understanding too well. Sherlock couldn't tell. his brain was too busy analysing the colour of the fibers on his jumper and how they contrasted to the sinews of a cadaver's muscles under a microscope to concentrate on the more important things.

"Come on." Watson eventually said gently. "Sit down, and I'll get us a cup of tea. and lots of water. I need you to drink for me, Sherlock. Ok?"

Sherlock nodded mutely.  
John noticed. he was helping.  
Sherlock needed him.

He curled up, rocking slightly, his fingers knotted in his hair, when Watson reappeared. Watson placed the cup of tea into his palms gently and took a seat next to him on the sofa.  
"Sherlock?" he said after a long pause.

"mmgn." Sherlock groaned, feeling dizzy. Watson leant over and pushed the mug up to his lips, encouraging him to drink, which he did.

"Sherlock...I won't live here soon." Watson said gently. "but...but I won't leave you. Ever. You're my friend."

Sherlock looked over at him, and his cool blue, drug-addled eyes looked vulnerable and pure for a moment.  
Watson's expression softened and he put a hand on his shoulder.  
"I promise you. Now stop all this nonsense, ok? I'll be here, you don't need this."

Sherlock looked at him for a long time. John Watson. That man saw and knew more than he often gave him credit for.  
he nodded mutely.

"After all, you've got your skull still." Watson joked gently. "And who knows? Maybe there'll be a good serial killer soon?"  
Sherlock smiled slightly and looked at him. He looked back, and they both started laughing to release the tension.  
"Idiot." Watson said, giving him a nudge.  
Sherlock smirked and drank his tea, for once not minding that 'insult' one bit.

-the end-


End file.
